Newbery Challenge: Young Fu of the Upper Yangtze

It’s been three months since I’ve made any progress towards my goal to read all the Newbery award-winning books since the dawn of Newbery award-winning books. Admitted, I’ve been avoiding the 1933 winner, which I had read before and didn’t like. Two years later, I can say it’s actually worse than I remember. I don’t think I have the stamina to address all the indignities in this book, but here’s the lowdown:

Young Fu of the Upper Yangtze, by Elizabeth Foreman Lewis, chronicles thirteen year old Fu Yuin-Fah’s life after he and his widowed mother move to the city of Chungking (one of the big five in China) to make his fortune as an apprentice coppersmith. In a Ragged Dick manner, Fu learns to climb the ranks of Tang’s workshop and navigate city life during a tumultuous time of political upheaval, instability, and modernization. Lewis doesn’t state when, but with mentions of Dr. Sun Yet-sen and someone with vaguely Communist ideas, I’d say Young Fu’s story takes place about the same time Lewis was in China as a missionary and teacher, 1917.

When Lewis writes, she has a habit of telling, rather than showing. As a result, the story is a tedious mishmash of dialogue and exposition. Also, her characters tend to be caricatures and stereotypes: the nagging mother, the superstitious peasant, the wise unworldly scholar. And she has a habit of suddenly switching points-of-views during the narrative, effectively halting the flow to go into the mind of a side character we’ll never meet again. Worse, their perspectives don’t offer anything new, but echo the superstitious and pessimistic mentality expressed by almost every character in the book.

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Review: The Runaway King

Warning: mild spoilers ahead.

Picking up a month after the end of The False Prince, The Runaway King by Jennifer A. Nielsen has all the hallmarks of its prequel: action, adventure, swordfights, danger. Jaron, the newly crowned king, is in trouble. His advisors don’t trust him, his people don’t like him, and his country is being threatened with war on multiple fronts. After thwarting an assassination attempt, Jaron escapes with a wounded arm, and perhaps a concussion as well, because he then comes up with a ridiculous, downright dumb idea to run away (after convincing a friend to impersonate him at court) and broker peace on his own. In other words, he’s going to save the kingdom single-handed, with nothing but his wits.

It’s a fun idea, and Nielsen somehow makes it work, though I had trouble following (and believing) some of the logic and plausibility. Don’t ask me how Jaron decided to join the pirates–the same people who tried for years to kill him–and turn them over to his side, because that defies all reason. Then again, Jaron isn’t exactly sensible.

I could have handled the implausibility of the plot. What bothered me is that the book felt like a pale echo of The False Prince. Once again we have Jaron the Lone Hero, hiding his identity while deciding the fate of the kingdom. As I read, I couldn’t help but think that we’ve seen all of this before, just with different names and locations. The stakes are higher this time, and the odds stacked even more against Jaron, but it’s essentially the same story. I wanted more from Jaron’s character arc–considering how the last book ended, I was expecting The Runaway King to take place at court, forcing Jaron to play politics and wrestle with court intrigue (a la The King of Attolia). That would have been a real challenge. Instead, Jaron gets to run off and enjoy more solo adventures. So despite some brilliant moments (like the trick Jaron pulls to escape forced military service) and edge-of-your-seat action, the book left me disappointed. I am, however, looking forward to its sequel, because Nielsen makes it clear that Jaron will have to stay at court and rule. Hopefully it will make up for some of the flaws of The Runaway King.

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In time for Tax Day…

The first writing assignment my eighth grade English teacher gave us was a prompt from one of her favorite songs: Barenaked Ladies’ “If I had a million dollars…” My eighth grade self was neither financially savvy, far-sighted, nor inspired. I wrote that I’d finally get a pet dog, as if enough money could convince my parents I’d magically become responsible enough to take care of one. It didn’t occur to me I could have also added that I’d just hire a dog sitter to cover the less glamorous aspects of having a pet. After listing all the cool tricks I’d teach my dog and all the long walks we’d take, I had trouble deciding what to do with the remaining $980,000 (assuming the old girl lived ten-odd years.)

In Millions, Frank Cottrell Boyce poses the same question my English teacher did, but his take is far more interesting than mine. Less than three weeks before Euro Day, when the old pound becomes obsolete, a big bag of cash–229,370 pounds in bank notes, to be exact–falls out of the sky and into Damian’s lap (or to be literal, at his feet.) Damian idolizes patron saints the way most boys follow footballers. He also tries to emulate their ways (for example, mortification of the flesh by holly) and receives regular visitations from them (he is anxious to know if they’ve met a St. Maureen yet), so naturally, he assumes the money is a gift from God meant to be used for good works.

Damian’s older brother Anthony, a Wall Street financial guru in the making, believes a house would be a better investment. He’s also a lot shrewder than Damian, whether it’s at telling credible lies or leveraging the fact their mum’s dead to their advantage. At first it’s great to feel so rich, but it turns out it’s difficult for two minors to spend so much money, whether it’s on real estate or charity, without arousing suspicion and unwanted attention. Especially since that money didn’t just fall from the sky, but was pitched off the side of a train…

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BoB: Better Late Than Never!

I was traveling when Battle of the Kids’ Books announced the Big Kahuna Winner, so I’m just absorbing the news now, and feeling very behind.

I’m going to join the mass chorus of those who are sad that Code Name Verity lost–even though I like No Crystal Stair quite a lot.

Still, CNV reminds me of last year’s Okay for Now–a zombie and a popular book that missed out on the golden sticker–so I thought CNV had a lock on the Big Kahuna Round.

But enough complaining. To the Battle Commanders–thank you for organizing another fantastic year of dueling books. BoB always introduces me to at least one great book I wouldn’t have read otherwise. Last year it was The Grand Plan to Fix Everything. This time it’s Moonbird and Temple Grandin.

And finally: through most of March, I managed to avoid the snooze button by checking the latest BoB results on my phone in the morning. Reading the judges’ comments always woke me up. Now that it’s over, I’m back to my lazy old ways…until next year, of course.

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Review: A Greyhound of a Girl

A Greyhound of a Girl, by Roddy Doyle, is a deceptively simple tale that spans and links four generations of women. The telling is not always linear, but in present day Dublin, twelve-year-old Mary’s beloved grandmother, Emer, is dying. She and her mother, Scarlett, go every day to visit her granny in the hospital. One day, Mary meets an unfamiliar young woman with an old-fashioned name, Tansey. Somehow, Tansey knows Emer isn’t well and she has a strange request: Tell your granny it’ll all be grand.

Just like that, Tansey’s message and a kiss on the chin evoke memories of the past–in particular, the pivotal day when Emer, age three, dropped an egg, played on her mammy’s lap, and lost her mammy to the flu. Emer’s mammy was–is–also called Tansey, and would it be stereotyping if I said the Irish have a knack for telling ghost stories?

“It was only an hegg.”

To echo what Mary says to her mom: “So what, like? Your granny is a ghost and mine is dying. And that’s the only thing that isn’t stupid.”

So what is that Emer is afraid of dying, and even if she doesn’t know it yet, she needs her mammy to reassure her in a way no one else can. What follows is a quirky family reunion and a remarkable impromptu road trip that cements the ties between mothers and daughters, and makes Emer’s final journey more bearable for all of them.

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Scott O’Dell Challenge Part 7: Jip, His Story

The best part of Katherine Paterson’s Jip, His Story (set in 1855; and winner of the 1997 O’Dell Award) is the unexpected appearance of Lyddie Worthen, the mill girl from Lyddie. That book can’t be beat in terms of its depressing-ness (I found it sadder than Bridge to Terabithia, and that’s saying something), so when Lyddie appeared in Jip’s story, college-educated and a teacher, I couldn’t have been happier that she’d achieved her dreams at last.

But long before Lyddie shows up, we’re introduced to Jip, so-named because he fell off the back of a wagon as a baby and was taken to the poor farm (think London workhouses, but in rural Vermont) when no one claimed him. Jip knows nothing about his past, and life at the farm is tolerable, if not enjoyable. Because Jip has a way with animals, he practically runs the place, and his work is the only thing keeping the residents from starvation.

Jip, though a far cry from the feisty Lyddie, is strong precisely because he’s kind in the face of  poverty and brutality. He’s kind to the farm animals, kind to Sheldon, the simple-minded boy others treat as dumb manual labor, and he’s kind even to Put, the lunatic locked in a cage, who was shipped to the poor farm because the county didn’t want to pay for his stay at the asylum. Jip’s so busy being kind that he barely notices life hasn’t been kind to him–until others start to return the favor.

Under Teacher’s (Lyddie’s) encouragement, Jip learns to read and believes he deserves more in life. Put, in his saner moments, helps out on the farm and becomes a true friend to Jip. Around the same time, a stranger shows up in town, someone who takes an unusual interest in Jip, but alternately repulses and fascinates him with his stories about a man searching for his long-lost son. It’s the kind of slick, oily kindness Jip could do without, yet he can’t help feeling hopeful.

The mystery of Jip’s past, the mysterious stranger, and the friendship of Lyddie and her fiance Luke Stevens all wind up in a wrenching, satisfying ending. The solution was so obvious, but it eluded me until 3/4 of the way through, and it was like that moment in Keeper when everything suddenly makes sense–except I should have figured it out sooner.

And the history angle? Even though Jip’s particular struggles are period-specific (poor farms have gone out of fashion, thank goodness), I couldn’t help but think about the news every time the book mentions education, public funding or mental health care. We’re still wrestling with the same problems, and that makes Jip’s story timeless.

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Review: Return to the Willows

Whenever an iconic and beloved series is jump-started, revamped, or revisited, there is always anxiety among devoted fans. Whoever’s heading the project has a demanding task ahead of them: make it relevant to the modern day, please the existing fanbase, connect with new audience, be true to the original material, don’t repaint Daleks in technicolor!

Now I didn’t read Kenneth Grahame’s classic, The Wind in the Willows, until I was an adult, so Willows doesn’t have the nostalgic aura surrounding it that it does for many readers. However, I think author Jacqueline Kelly does a cracking job ensuring that the Willows we return to is quintessentially the same Willows we left at the end of Grahame’s tale. For starters, the narrator’s voice is spot on: avuncularly British (though why I associate the two words, I don’t know. None of my uncles are British), charmingly old-school, languidly pastoral, and slightly superior, especially in matters of taste and culture. Familiar friends Ratty, Mole, Toad, and Badger haven’t changed a whit, either, although Toad’s taste in vehicles has grown more extravagant.

Okay, I complained about the love interest, but they’re cute together, so I had to draw them.

But Return to the Willows isn’t just a rehash of its predecessor. It’s no easy task to write funny, much less the kind of funny that spans a century, but as a contemporary reader, I enjoyed the lovely mix of slapstick, situational humor, and witty characterization–especially when certain characters fail to realize the joke’s on them. Kelly also introduces several new characters to shake up Ratty, Mole, Toad, and Badger’s idyllic life: the nephew, the urchin, and the love-interest. Humphrey, Toad’s nephew, a shy young inventor befriends Sammy, a good-hearted weasel from the wrong side of the woods, and their friendship sets into motion one of the more climactic plotlines. And then there’s Matilda. At first, I was wary that the only female character Kelly introduces is Ratty’s potential love interest, but thankfully, Matilda turns out to be brave and clever, able to hold her own in Ratty, Badger, and Mole’s long-standing old boy’s club. (Still, why could she not have a name like Squirrel, or Hedgehog, or Vole–if you want her to be the same species as Ratty–and be the definite animal of her kind, the way Ratty, Mole, and Toad are?)

In short, I had a great time revisiting Willows (and Clint Young’s illustrations won me over completely), although I wonder what hardcore fans of the original think. Were you as charmed with this sequel as I was?

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Battle of the Kids’ Book-More Random Thoughts

1) It is truly the year of YA fiction and the YA judges. Round 1 has left a wake of non-fiction and middle grade spines in its wake. (Bomb is the only non-fiction book to prevail when pitted against fiction, YA or middle grade; Starry River is the only middle grade book to prevail against YA.)

2) In Round 1, 6 out of 16 books were YA, 6 out of 16 books were MG, and 4 out 16 books were non-fiction. Going into Round 2, 5 out of 8 books are YA, 2 out of 8 books are MG, and 1 out of 8 books are non-fiction. The percentage of YA has increased from 37.5% in Round 1 to 62.5% in Round 2; the percentage of MG has decreased from 37.5% in Round 1 to 25% in Round 2; the percentage of non-fiction has decreased from 25% in Round 1 to 12.5% in Round 2.

3) With YA dominating the field, the diversity of genres has decreased from the first round to the next. This makes future brackets less exciting, in my opinion.

4) As I understand college sports (which is barely, so feel free to correct me) Division I schools play other Division I schools, and so forth. If it is unfair to pit a Division I team against a Division III team, then why match middle grade against non-fiction against YA in the first round?

5) Instead, do a Liar & Spy vs Splendors and Glooms, and match YA against YA, non-fiction against non-fiction, and middle grade against middle grade in Round 1. It’s not affirmative action, it’s reducing inherent biases.

6) Then judges won’t have to reiterate ad nauseam how choosing one over the other is like picking “apples and oranges,” or resort to egalitarian politesse (until Round 2 or 3.) That should make Roger Sutton happier.

7) Unrelated, but could the judges stop doing in-depths summaries of the books? We’ve either read the books already, or we want to read the books, so it’s a lose-lose situation when the judges give away more than the basic premise.

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In Honor of Pi Day…

Review: Navigating Early by Clare Vanderpool

Before I say anything else about this book:

• does Navigating’s cover not remind you of its predecessor, Moon Over Manifest?
• did anyone else make Life of Pi comparisons while reading it?
• or Keeper, by Kathi Appelt?
• or the film Moonrise Kingdom, for that matter?

That said, Navigating Early, by 2011 Newbery Award winner Clare Vanderpool, is a strange strange story. It’s a story-within-a-story of tall tales, self-discovery, friendship, and old school adventure.

Vanderpool captured my attention right away with the character of Jack, a self-described “fish out of water,” only inversed. Not only has he been transplanted from Kansas to Morton Hill Academy, a maritime-obsessed boarding school on the coast of Maine, Jack is also struggling with the recent loss of his mother. This adds another level of estrangement between him and everyone else in his life, particularly his father, a naval officer who has just returned from four years of fighting in WWII. Through a series of embarrassing events, Jack gets acquainted with Early, “that strangest of boys” who believes that Pi is more than a number, that Pi tells a story, and that contrary to the “theories” of a university math professor, Pi isn’t finite. Early is also no stranger to loss, but unlike Jack, he isn’t lost. He’s actively looking for something. Perhaps that’s the reason why Jack decides to join Early on his crazy quest down the Kennebec River to find Pi.

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SLJ Battle of the Kids’ Books-Jen’s Predictions

Armed with my mug o’ tea (naught but the finest Alishan high mountain tea leaves, of course), I attempt to divine the course of the 2013 SLJ Battle of the Kids’ Books. Behold my bracket:

Click for closeup =)

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