A Clean, Well-Lighted Taco Shop

　
"Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe."
                                                  -- Ernest Hemingway, "A Clean, Well-
                                                    Lighted Place" (story below)


When I first came across the picture above, I was immediately captivated. I just could not figure out exactly why, however. Unable (or unwilling) to just cast it aside and move on to other things, I decided to sit down and figure out its ability to impact me. If I were to do otherwise, I would be haunted by a missed opportunity to figure out a distinctively intriguing text. By taking some time to parse its features, and think trough the effects of these features, I could arrive at not just an understanding of the photograph and its capacity to move me, but an appreciation--and thus the recovery--of a text that someone else might otherwise dismiss as nothing more than a shot of some run-of-the-mill taco shop.

Foremost, there is something rather arresting about the contrast of light and darkness in the photograph. Against what seems to be encroaching darkness, which actually creates a tension or even an anxiety in the photograph between light and darkness, the taco shop itself is aglow. Brightly lit signs (including an electric star, no less) announce and draw attention to the shop, projecting light onto the yellow paint of the exterior and thus bathing the shop in light. All the while, electric light saturates the interior, resulting in a brilliance that emanates from within and amplifies the association of light with the shop. Two nearby streetlights even seem, at least through the trickery of perspective, to be spotlighting the shop, directing additional light (and attention) toward a place evidently in need of as much illumination as possible.

At once emitting light from within and lit from without, the taco shop stands out as a luminous beacon amidst the darkness that not only surrounds it, but actually seems to threaten to engulf it. After all, in terms of the composition of the shot, the taco shop represents a one-third sliver of light amidst two-thirds of darkness. Between the darkness of the street and sky, darkness seems on the verge of converging on the shop. The darkness of the two vehicles, both of which point toward the shop, adds to the preponderance of darkness in the shot. If not for the aforementioned sources of illumination--desperate gestures at fending off darkness--darkness would prevail.

As the taco shop emerges as a bastion of light amidst a profoundly dark space, Ernest Hemingway's "A Clean Well-Lighted Place" quickly comes to mind. Hemingway's story turns on existential angst as a fact of life. The human challenge, this story suggests, is to keep despair at bay as the fundamental meaninglessness and pointlessness (or nothingness or nada) of existence weighs upon us. Some of us, such as the deaf old man in the story, turn to drink and suicide, while others, such as the young waiter, might be fortunate enough to have certain comforts (such as "youth, confidence, and a job") that serve as antidotes (via processes of self-deception) to the realities of existential nothingness. The older waiter realizes that a clean, well-lighted place is sometimes the sort of harbor, consolation, or respite that a person needs. In the photograph above, the taco shop stands out like just such a harbor amidst the literal and figurative darkness in which, as Hemingway's story suggests, we find ourselves.

The isolation of the well-lit taco shop amidst the darkness creates an eerie, ominous, and desperate sensation of light as something that is endangered. To take things a step further, we might draw out a correlation between the physical nothingness of darkness and the sort of existential nada about which Hemingway writes to read the light and concomitant life of the taco stand as a last stand against existential nothingness. Along these lines, maybe the draw of the photograph is precisely its ability to speak to the fundamental, primal desire for a clean, well-lighted place that we all carry in the face of the nada that we may not fear or dread, but that we do know all too well.

***

"A Clean, Well-Lighted Place"

Ernest Hemingway

It was very late and everyone had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

"Last week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."

They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the cafe and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.

"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.

"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"

"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.

"What do you want?"

The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.

"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.

"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now.I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the cafe and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy.

"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deafman. The old man motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile."Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.

"He's drunk now," he said.

"He's drunk every night."

"What did he want to kill himself for?"

"How should I know."

"How did he do it?"

"He hung himself with a rope."

"Who cut him down?"

"His niece."

"Why did they do it?"

"Fear for his soul."

"How much money has he got?" "He's got plenty."

"He must be eighty years old."

"Anyway I should say he was eighty."

"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock.What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

"He stays up because he likes it."

"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

"He had a wife once too."

"A wife would be no good to him now."

"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."

"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."

"I know." "I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."

"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."

The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.

"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.

"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."

"Another," said the old man.

"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."

"I want to go home to bed."

"What is an hour?"

"More to me than to him."

"An hour is the same."

"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."

"It's not the same."

"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.

"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"No, hombre, only to make a joke."

"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."

"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said."You have everything."

"And what do you lack?"

"Everything but work."

"You have everything I have."

"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."

"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."

"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter said.

"With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."

"I want to go home and into bed."

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe."

"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."

"Good night," said the younger waiter.

"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself, It was the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that isprovided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

"What's yours?" asked the barman.

"Nada."

"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.

"A little cup," said the waiter.

The barman poured it for him.

"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished,"the waiter said.

The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation.

"You want another copita?" the barman asked.

"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it's probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

(1933)

Working with What We've Got

Phillip Serrato

Department of English & Comparative Literature

SDSU Center for the Study of Children’s Literature

San Diego State University

pserrato@mail.sdsu.edu

Working with What We’ve Got

For decades, critics, librarians, teachers, and scholars have bemoaned the paucity of Latino/a representation in children’s literature, calling for greater diversity—and less stereotyping—for a host of reasons, chief among them the validation of the ethnic and cultural identity of Latino/a child readers. Back in 1975, for instance, in a report on extant representations of Chicanos/as in children’s texts, the Council on Interracial Books for children declared, “The books surveyed are scarcely relevant to Chicano experience or interest at all. …There is very little in these books to enable a child to recognize a way of life, a history, a set of life circumstances—a culture—with which he or she can identify” (7). Twenty years later, in an interview on the surge of books for children by Latino/a authors in the 1990s, Chicano poet Francisco X. Alarcón voiced the same concern, reiterating the need for more children’s books with Latino/a themes and characters. “When you don’t see your own images through the media or in books,” he is quoted as saying, “you start thinking you’re weird, and your self-esteem gets bruised” (Fernandez E1).

In late 2012, we find New York Times reporter Motoko Rich sounding the same alarm yet again. In the opening paragraph of her 4 December article “For Young Latino Readers, an Image Is Missing,” [1] Rich introduces Mario Cortez-Pacheco, an 8-year-old boy with a fondness for the Magic Tree House and Diary of a Wimpy Kid series. According to Rich, as much as Mario enjoys these and other books, a lack of diversity in what he reads bothers him. She quotes him lamenting, “I see a lot of people that don’t have a lot of color.” This (rather precocious) observation moves Rich herself to explain/commiserate, “[N]onwhite Latino children seldom see themselves in books written for young readers.” Noting the concern of “education experts and teachers who work with large Latino populations” that “the lack of familiar images could be an obstacle as young readers work to build stamina and deepen their understanding of story elements,” Rich attempts to underscore the predicament of Latino/a children by citing different studies that demonstrate the relative absence of Latino/a people and culture in books for younger readers.

To be sure, a continued lack of diversity in children’s literature is problematic. Much discussion on the matter has taken and continues to take place. Since publishers play an obvious role in determining what and how much children do and do not see, calls for them to provide more diverse offerings remain necessary. But at the same time, it is important not to overlook the fact that a number of excellent Latino/a texts for children (and adolescents) do already exist. The problem is that a lack of awareness of these books—amongst teachers, librarians, parents, and even scholars—has left them underappreciated and, consequently, underutilized. So long as these books remain unknown and untouched, they stand little chance of making their way into the hands of younger readers. Bearing this in mind, beyond simply reiterating calls for more diversity in children’s literature—and in no way do I mean to discredit or discard such calls—I think it is just as important that teachers, librarians, parents, and scholars attempt to work with the texts that we do have. With more deliberate efforts to search out these books, learn about them, and explore what they have to offer, both broader appreciation and richer understandings of them become possible, which can lead to more widespread adoption and use of them in different spheres.

The Problem of the Profit Motive

Now what determines whether a book stays in print is quick sales and

that is more about marketing and instant gratification than quality.

 --Sallie Lowenstein, author and founder of Lion Stone Books

Owing to the profit motive of publishers, a general lack of diversity in children’s literature is not surprising. Back in the 1990s, the currency, and thus the profitability, of multiculturalism enabled a brief surge in the publication (and consumption) of books for children by the likes of  Sandra Cisneros, Ana Castillo, Luis Rodríguez, Gloria Anzaldúa, Julia Alvarez, and Alarcón.[2] Unfortunately, this surge did not snowball into sustained support for children’s books by Latino/a authors. As Leonard Marcus points out in a Letter to the Editor in response to Rich’s article, nowadays “risk-averse” publishers see “pink princesses” and “teenage vampires” as more likely to turn a profit—or at least a greater profit—than, say, something like Juan Felipe Herrera’s Downtown Boy (2005) or Cinnamon Girl: Letters Found inside a Cereal Box (2005).[3] In this day and age in which publishers' insistence on quicker and bigger returns has resulted in their diminished patience or willingness to incubate the success of worthy titles, one is hard-pressed to find works like Herrera’s in many publishers’ catalogues.[4]

A shared commitment on the part of booksellers to that which will most readily generate the most profit adds to the difference between the accessibility and the inaccessibility of a given text. For example, over the past 4 years the only Latino/a book that I have seen at the 10 Scholastic book fairs hosted by my son’s elementary school has been Pam Muñoz Ryan’s Esperanza Rising (2000), a book that has become the go-to “Latino/a” text for school reading lists, many college-level children’s literature courses, and, it seems, some school book fairs. Lego Star Wars, juvenile paranormal, and tediously generic picture books have otherwise filled the shelves of the book fair year after year. Of course, such a stagnant, “risk-averse” menu precludes any opportunity for readers to chance upon and explore something new, something different, something out of the ordinary that, like Downtown Boy or Cinnamon Girl, might prove to be extraordinary.

At the local Barnes & Noble, Latino/a children’s books have not fared much better. Granted, I have at least managed, over the years, to locate picture books like Herrera’s The Upside Down Boy (2000), Alarcón’s From the Bellybutton of the Moon and Other Summer Poems (1998), and Amada Irma Pérez’s My Very Own Room (2000). Unfortunately, I have yet to see these few texts featured in any kind of prominent display that could inspire curiosity or interest in a book shopper. In fact, perhaps because they feature bilingual content, more often than not the occasional books that I have found have been relegated to the out-of-the way Libros en Español section of the children’s area. Such a shelving practice does not bode well for the likelihood of these books catching the attention of the broadest possible spectrum of book browsers.

The Trap of the "Multicultural" Tag

On top of the different obstacles associated with the publishing and marketing of Latino/a children’s literature, it occurs to me that popular conceptualizations of “multicultural literature” have narrowed and ossified into a constrained perspective of Latino/a (and other “multicultural”) children’s texts. The result has been the foreclosure of some adults’ interest in these texts along with an attendant curbing of their willingness to pick them up and share them with younger readers. Consider, for instance, the effects of figurations of multicultural literature such as the following:

Reading literature about people from other cultures has been proven to have positive developmental [effects] on children of all backgrounds. For the children of a specific ethnic minority, reading positive stories about their own ethnic group can increase self-esteem and make them feel part of a larger society. For children of a “majority” group, reading stories about other cultures can increase their sensitivity to those who are different from themselves, improve their knowledge of the world, and help them realize that although people have many differences, they also share many similarities. (de la Iglesia)

Generally speaking, the concept of multicultural literature provides a convenient principle for organizing efforts to diversify students’ reading experiences. In turn, it provides both a philosophy and a strategy for broadening children’s knowledge, perspective, and understanding, all of which must be fostered if we are to approach what Trinh T. Minh-ha describes as the ability “to live fearlessly with and within difference(s)” (84). But if teachers and parents only see, approach, or present Latino/a children’s texts under the auspices of "multicultural literature," which is to say as anthropological samplings of what it is like to “be Latino,”[5] or as books that allow Latino/a children to “[see] themselves reflected in their reading,” they are seriously shortchanging and pigeonholing these texts. Such a perspective effectively reduces/restricts the utility or worth of these texts to token encounters with “diversity” (which is to say, otherness). Ultimately, as “multicultural literature,” Latino/a children’s literature becomes/remains for many consumers a potentially intimidating or estranged “other” kind of literature (which is to say, literature by, about, and for “others”).[6]

Transcending Tokenism, Transcending Otherness

What parents, teachers, prospective teachers, architects of the Common Core, curriculum committees, scholars, booksellers, and, yes, publishers ought to realize and explore is the splendidly polyvalent potential of Latino/a children’s literature to inspire, educate, illuminate, and connect with any and all child readers. Only with such a realization can Latino/a children’s literature be integrated more organically into K-12 curricula, library reading lists, college syllabi, scholarly conversations, school book fairs, and children's reading habits more generally. For instance, Alarcón’s poetry provides an excellent opportunity for nurturing children’s ability to read, analyze, understand, and more profoundly enjoy poetry. With collections such as Laughing Tomatoes and Other Spring Poems (1997), Angels Ride Bikes and Other Fall Poems (1999), and Iguanas in the Snow and Other Winter Poems (2001), children can explore (and thus learn about) word choice, line breaks, and imagery, and they can discover (and practice) how, as Alarcón says in Laughing Tomatoes, “A Poem makes us see everything for the first time.” Children can even get from Alarcón’s books (and I firmly believe this is possible) a primer on Imagism if not a corollary introduction to Ezra Pound (or at least select aspects of his work…).

Meanwhile, Pat Mora’s Doña Flor: A Tall Tale about a Giant Woman with a Great Big Heart (2005) can be part of an introduction to tall tales as well as an inspiring, empowering example of how writers might at once work within yet also change from within a particular literary tradition. In this case, we have an author brilliantly executing a feminist critique of masculinity in the form of a tall tale. And Herrera’s aforementioned Downtown Boy is a meticulously crafted verse novel that provides a dazzling rendering of a child’s subjectivity. Among many other things, Downtown Boy lends itself to the exploration of the correlation between literary form and subject matter; discussion about the formation of the self vis-à-vis the influence of the other; and the development in younger readers of aesthetic appreciation and pleasure.

That texts such as Laughing Tomatoes, Doña Flor, and Downtown Boy do what they do in ways that are not only accessible to younger readers, but that also might resonate in especially personal ways for Latino/a readers makes them that much more powerful.

Since academia can play a leading role in devising and modeling new, progressive ways of thinking, it occurs to me that children’s literature scholars can help effect a shift in how Latino/a children’s literature is regarded and handled. As professors, we work with large groups of students, many of whom are considering a career in teaching. In this role, we have a ripe opportunity both to expand how people perceive Latino/a children’s books more generally and, more particularly, to broaden prospective teachers’ understanding of the kinds of reading, writing, and thinking experiences that are possible with these books. Outside of the classroom, in our brown bag presentations, conference talks, and scholarly publications, we can explore, innovate, test out, flesh out, and demonstrate diverse methodologies for working with these texts. Presently, not a lot of scholarship exists on Latino/a children’s literature. Of the work that does exist, there seems to be a tendency toward matters of immigration and immigrant experiences in this literature. Such matters are certainly important and worthy of attention, but there is more to Latino/ children’s literature than just immigration.[7] With more adventurous, more playful, more exploratory scholarly attention to this literature, the formulation of new terms for understanding it that transcend the confines instituted and maintained by the tag of “multicultural literature” become possible.   

Overall, then, while the relative lack of diversity in children’s literature remains a concern, we would do well to remember (or realize) that much can be done with—and gained from—the many excellent Latino/a children’s books that already do exist. If publishers and booksellers won’t promote these books or make more of them more available, teachers, librarians, parents, scholars, and other concerned parties can search them out themselves and see to it that readers of all backgrounds have not just access to these books, but meaningful, multifaceted, productive engagement with them.

Now, the part of Rich’s article that I actually find most alarming arises in the last few paragraphs when she mentions that “a new study…by pediatricians and sociologists at the University of California shows that Latino children start school seven months behind their white peers, on average, in oral language and preliteracy skills.” Upon gesturing toward this study, Rich quotes a Harvard Education professor who suggests (somewhat offensively) that Latino/a children’s deficiencies in oral language and preliteracy skills mean that “what might seem like simple and accessible text for a standard English speaker might be puzzling for [some Latino/a] kids.” The implication that Rich seems to be trying to draw out through her recourse to the study and the quote is that beyond providing the recognition and validation that kids like Mario Cortez-Pacheco need, more children’s books with Latino/a themes, characters, and bodies could redress the problem of Latino/a children’s readiness for school. I cannot help but think, however, that neither the UC study nor the Harvard professor’s statement are as related to the principal subject of the article (the lack of representation of Latinos/as in children’s literature) as Rich would like her reader to believe. There seems to be much more to the specific matter of Latino/a children’s preparedness for school than the relative paucity of Latino/a characters in children’s literature. Now, might a picture book with brown bodies or culturally recognizable elements help in the endeavor of sending Latino/a children to school better prepared? Perhaps. Perhaps this is why today we could use books similar to the series of “mini libros” that Ernesto Galarza published in the late 1960s and early 1970s (or why, if no one today will write or publish books such as these, we should go dig out Galarza’s mini libros and, through copy machines and digital platforms, make them available to children).[8] But to insinuate a correlation between a relative lack of such books and dismal statistics about Latino/a children’s readiness for school is a fraught move. Frankly, Latino/a children’s unpreparedness for school has more to do with (and so demands immediate action from) those of us raising Latino/a children than it does with the publishing industry.

---

[1] My thanks to my colleague, June Cummins, for bringing this article to my attention.

[2] Mind, with this statement I in no way mean to say that these authors were themselves merely opportunists capitalizing on market trends of the time. The turn of so many authors, especially established ones, to children’s literature at this time was actually a logical development in Latino/a literary history for various reasons. Among other things, Latino/a writers’ increased interest in writing for children reflects the exciting spirit of experimentation and activism that distinguished the time. But it is true that multicultural children’s literature was a lucrative sector of the marketplace for publishers in the 1990s. Consequently, the surge of published books for children by Latino/a authors in the 1990s might be seen as the result of a convergence of market realities, publishers’ opportunism, and experimentation amongst Latino/a cultural workers.

[3] These books by Herrera are beautiful, challenging, award-winning literary accomplishments that, unfortunately, are already out of print. Shortly after they were published, I mentioned to Herrera that their respective publishers did not seem to be doing much to “push” them. With a mix of resignation and disappointment, he responded that the publishers “just gave up” on them. On one hand, they did not see profit potential, or at least not enough to their liking, and so did not put forth much of an effort to celebrate them and otherwise put them on the radar of younger readers, their parents, and/or their teachers. On the other hand, the publishers did not quite “know what to do” with these distinctive books. Rather than formulate a strategy for facilitating and encouraging readers’ interest in and engagement with Herrera’s books, his publishers allowed them to wither, focusing their energies on more easily marketable and consumable titles.

[4] In a talk delivered at San Diego State University, author and founder of Lion Stone Books, Sallie Lowenstein, provided chilling insight into the impatience that characterizes the publishing industry nowadays. Whereas in the past titles might have had 12-16 months to "be noticed and develop a following," now, she noted, "most books have only 6 weeks to 3 months to make an impact." 

[5] One of the more egregiously tacky, unaware examples of this strand of multiculturalism is Kathleen Krull’s The Other Side: How Kids Live in a California Latino Neighborhood (1994).

[6] For this reason, one thing I have noticed amongst some of my own students (many of whom are preparing to become teachers) is an initial reticence to feel authorized to talk about a text that represents an ethnic or cultural identity, perspective, or experience that they do not share. One of the many things I consequently have to stress to them is that the potentially different subject position of its author or its potentially unfamiliar ethnic or cultural content is no reason for them to feel alienated from or intimidated by a given text. In this manner I am trying to nurture a comfort with reading across subject positions that will enable rewarding experiences working with diverse kinds of literatures. Ideally, my prospective teachers will be not only a bit more aware of some of the diverse kinds of literatures that are “out there,” but also unafraid of undertaking the task of guiding their own students into and through engagement with such texts. For more on the matter of multicultural literature in a college-level children’s literature course, see Robin Calland’s “It’s Not Un-American to Have One’s Feet and Tongues in Different Worlds: Overcoming Resistance to Multicultural Literature in My Children’s Literature Classroom,” an essay in which Calland discusses the outright resistance that many of her own students have brought to multicultural literatures in her own courses.

[7] Along these lines, what we also need from publishers is support for books by Latino/a authors that feature content that does more than just provide sociological insight.

[8] As suggested by the series name, Galarza’s mini libros were endearing picture booklets intended for very young children. The first, Zoo Risa, appeared in 1968 and featured an assortment of playful verses about different zoo animals. Accompanied by black and white photographs of the animals themselves, the poems in this book introduce no less than 48 different animals. Later volumes include Historia verdadera de una botella de leche [The True Story of a Bottle of Milk] (1972) and Historia verdadera de una gota de miel [The True Story of a Drop of Honey] (1971). For an introduction to the mini libros and the transcript of an interview with Galarza about them, see Morris and Beard.

Works Cited

Alarcón, Francisco. Angels Ride Bikes and Other Fall Poems. San Francisco: Children’s Book P, 1999.

----------. From the Bellybutton of the Moon and Other Summer Poems. San Francisco: Children’s Book P, 1998.

----------. Iguanas in the Snow and Other Winter Poems. San Francisco: Children’s Book P, 2001.

---------. Laughing Tomatoes and Other Spring Poems. San Francisco: Children’s Book P, 1997.

Calland, Robin. “It’s Not Un-American to Have One’s Feet and Tongues in Different Worlds: Overcoming Resistance to Multicultural Literature in My Children’s Literature Classroom.” Con-Textos: Revista de Semiótica Literaria 22.45 (2010): 63-72.

Council on Interracial Books for Children. “Chicano Culture in Children’s Literature: Stereotypes, Distortions, and Omissions.” CIBC Bulletin. 5.7-8 (1975). 7-14.

de la Iglesia, Michele. “Multicultural Literature for Children.” Ipl2. 3 Jan 2013. <http://www.ipl.org/div/pf/entry/48493>.

Fernandez, Maria Elena. “A New Chapter on Cultural Pride.” Los Angeles Times 24 September 2000. E1+.

Galarza, Ernesto. Historia verdadera de una botella de leche. San Jose, CA: Editorial Almadén, 1972.

----------. Historia verdadera de una gota de miel. San Jose, CA: Editorial Almadén, 1971.

----------. Zoo Risa. Santa Barbara, CA: McNally and Loftin, 1968.

Herrera, Juan Felipe. Cinnamon Girl: Letters Found Inside a Cereal Box. New York : HarperCollins, 2005.

----------. Downtown Boy. New York: Scholastic, 2005.

----------. The Upside Down Boy/El niño de cabeza. San Francisco: Children’s Book P, 2000.

Krull, Kathleen. The Other Side: How Kids Live in a California Latino Neighborhood. New York: Lodestar, 1994.

Lowenstein, Sallie. Hugh C. Hyde Living Writers Series. San Diego State University, San Diego, CA. March 2013. Lecture/reading.

Marcus, Leonard. Letter. The New York Times. 10 December 2012. 10 December 2012. <http://www.nytimes.com/2012/12/11/opinion/the-diversity-inside-a-childrens-book.html>.

Minh-ha, Trinh. Woman Native Other. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1989.

Mora, Pat. Doña Flor: A Tall Tale about a Giant Woman with a Great Big Heart. New York: Knopf, 2005.

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