Speak Up

I would have liked to have written something funny today. I have a funny story to tell, about how I went to yoga with a face towel I'd clearly previously used to condition tack--it was clean, but it still smelled like Lexol--and how every time I wiped the sweat from my face my face got more and more shiny and conditioned until by the end of class it was as sleek and shiny as my saddle. But then after class I looked at my phone, and read about another hate crime, this time a Jewish man in Australia being attacked in a public park, and it didn't feel like time to be funny.

There's been a steep increase in the number of antisemitic events world-wide, especially since the terror attacks in Israel October 7th, but over the last several years as well. 

I'm not Jewish, though I once read on the internet that I was. I can't offer a profound opinion on the current Israeli-Palestinian war or the decades of conflict that preceded it. I don't understand the history or politics well enough. I can say that terrorist attacks are wrong. I don't like bombing refugee camps, nor do I like the idea of refugees being used as human shields by their countrymen. I hate that children are dying.

I love my Jewish friends. I've spoken to a few of them and emailed a few more. My heart is especially with one of my college classmates, who lives in Israel and whose oldest child is currently doing mandatory service in the Israeli army. I pray for that young person every day.

But more than loving my Jewish friends--how hard is that, Jesus even talks about it, scathingly--“If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners love those who love them.  And if you do good to those who are good to you, what credit is that to you? Even sinners do that"--I support their civil rights. I support their right to exist peacefully in a global society--and honestly, I think everyone who considers themself a good person had better start doing that, because the last time we allowed antisemitism to rage unchecked we ended up in a horrible world war. 

Next week I'm speaking at a Catholic middle school. Yesterday I sat down to tweak my slide presentation--I've got a new book coming out in April, and, for the first time, I'm talking about it. The Night War is the story of a young girl named Miri, who escapes the massive round-up of Jews in Paris and finds herself in the village of Chenonceaux, where Catherine de Medici's ancient castle is being used to smuggle people to the relative safety of Vichy France. 

Miri is fictional, but the historic background is true. I made a slide about the Pletzl, the Jewish immigrant quarter in Paris. I put in one showing the only known photo of the Vel D'Hiv roundup, and added another of Chenonceau, the beautiful chateau. 

Then I added a slide to illustrate the Nazi's antisemitism. Here's the image:

It was an exhibition the Nazis brought to Occupied Paris--"The Jew and France." You can see the stereotyped hooked nose and grasping fingers--all the old tropes repeated.  

My search for my next slide sent me down a particularly loathsome rabbit hole. I'm not going to reprint the image I chose, though I will share it with the students I talk to. It features the same type of hooked-nose grasping cartoon figure, and then it accuses Jews of a surprising number of things, including feminism and hate crime laws--good job, Jews! Where do we thank you?--also climate change, communism, the lack of a wall on our Mexican border, and everyone's old favorite, usury. You know why Jews are accused of usury, which is the charging of too much interest? It dates back to the middle ages, when Catholics were forbidden by the Pope to charge any interest at all on loans. This meant that Catholics, which were the only type of Christian we had back then, couldn't be bankers, or at least not successful ones. At the same time, most countries had laws saying Jews couldn't own land or be in craft guilds. So--Jews became bankers. And then, if you're rich and powerful, and you've borrowed a bunch of money and don't want to pay it back---right, make it the bankers' fault. You can, because the bankers are all from a group of people who've already been stripped of many of their rights. See how this works? It's power and racism, same as now.

I'm looking forward to talking about antisemitism at this school next week, not because it will be fun, but because I'll be doing something I know is right. (Pro tip: if you're conflicted on which side is right, pick the side opposite the Nazis.) I know it's important, and I know it needs to be done.

Speak up. Yes, you. Speak UP. Otherwise the bad guys win.

Bon-bons on the Couch Vs. Trying

Last Friday I woke up with a heavy knot of anxiety in my stomach. My daughter and I had entered a horse trial for the weekend, and I'd reached the point where it seemed like a Very Bad Idea. I emailed a friend that I wasn't sure why I was competing, at this point in my life. It would be much simpler and probably much more pleasant to eat bon-bons on the couch all day instead. I then trudged out to the barn and explained to my daughter how I felt. "Ah," she replied, with genuine sympathy. "I've been there." Then she set up a beginner-novice oxer to vertical two-stride and told me to get myself and my mare over it.

I'm condensing a bit. And I'd like to say that beginner-novice used to be the lowest commonly-offered level of my chosen sport, eventing. Recently most events have added an even lower level, called Starter, which is where my mare and I are. Starter jumps are essentially speed bumps. I once competed several levels higher, schooled above that, and had serious plans to compete at a level that's tough by nearly anyone's standards. But then I landed on my head one too many times (four too many times...) and then I spent five years with undiagnosed autonomic dystonia, which meant that my entire autonomic nervous system--the bits you don't consciously control, like heartrate and blood pressure--spiraled out of control any time I was moving through space quickly, say, on the back of a cantering or even trotting horse. My heart rate would go above 170 bpm--no, that's not safe at my age--and my asthma would get bad, and not surprisingly I would feel pretty anxious, and the worst part was that no amount of effort in the world, no slow careful fitness work, no asthma meds, no EMDR (which I otherwise love) or thoughtful mental exercises, or brilliant kind horses or good coaching or anything else I tried would make it better. I couldn't get fit, because the exercise needed to improve my fitness was on the other side of the dystonia wall. I didn't understand what was happening to me, and I couldn't make it better, even though I really, really tried.

Then for a bit I traveled a ton for my writing, then we had a global pandemic, then my good mare Sarah was injured in the field to the point where she had to be retired, then the wonderful horse I leased went back to his owners, then my trainer found me a new, lovely, sensible, short-and-wide little mare. Rosie hadn't done much but she is cheerful and tries hard. Oddly enough, owning her didn't cure my brain dysfunction, so for our first year, stuck with a rider who had actual micro-blackouts from time to time, limited balance, and a perpetually racing heartbeat, Rosie got rather less brave in self-defense.

Then, finally, I got a diagnosis, and treatment from a functional neurologist. I don't really understand it all but I can say it's empirically much better, and I've been slowly making real progress at last. Last week my daughter and I did conditioning with our horses on the long slow hill on our farm, something we've done for years. Walk up, walk down. Trot up, walk down. Canter up, walk down. I've got an exercise app on my Apple watch--which is how I finally realized my heartrate was so out of control in the first place--and last week, for the first time, when I trotted Rosie up the hill with myself in two-point--a bit like a jockey--then cantered up it in the same position (so, my own effort was the same, but my body was moving more quickly though space) my heartrate stayed the same. And was also reasonable.

This is huge, and exciting, and I've been gradually, systematically restoring Rosie's confidence, and my own. And yet--why compete? Especially last weekend, when I had nothing on the line, knew that I won't make it to any other horse trials this year, wasn't qualifying for anything, etc., etc., and let's face it, I'm not headed for the Olympics or anything--the importance of this show from an external standpoint was zero. 

Also it was so much work, and it was very hot, and that two-stride my daughter set looked really scary, both to me and to Rosie. "Will they have a two-stride on Starter?" I asked. The answer was Almost Certainly Not. I'd ridden Starter at this venue before, with the leased horse, and the showjumping course was outside-diagonal-outside-diagonal, the simplest 8-jump course in the world. 

My daughter set me a whole course, with the two-stride at the end. And I can canter whole courses now, which I couldn't do for a long time (before this, we trotted them). And Rosie did the whole course beautifully until the two-stride, where she spun away the second element, afraid. "Do I lower it?" my daughter asked.

"No," I said, "For heaven's sakes. She can trot that." (I probably said a different word than "heaven's.") I had her jump the second element by itself, twice, then the whole two-stride twice, and then I pulled her up and patted her. "Now I repeat the whole course?" I asked.

My daughter shrugged. "Maybe just the second half."

"Cathy," I said, referencing our coach and good friend, the indomitable Cathy Wieschhoff, "would make me repeat the whole thing."

So I did, and we were awesome. The anxious feeling in the pit of my stomach slid away. And then it stayed gone while I went to the event and competed at wiener Starter, and Rosie was very good in dressage, and then there actually was a two-stride on the Starter showjump course, and Rosie turned to it with understanding and something like pleasure, and jumped it very neatly. And we cantered the whole course and my heart rate stayed manageable, and my asthma didn't spike, and I didn't feel dizzy, and I rode well. The way I used to. The way I've longed to.

The next day Rosie warmed up for cross-country beautifully. We cantered the first fence on course and I felt her falter a tiny bit--wow, Mom, that came up fast--my old horse Gully always liked time to process situations he didn't really understand, and Rosie's the same way. She goggled at the big fences to either side of our small second fence, and I could tell the entire undertaking felt like a lot to her. We haven't schooled off our home farm since April, and while she wasn't at all worried about the jumps I was asking of her, she was concerned about the upper-level jumps nearby and the jump judges and being alone on course and who knows what else. She spun a few times, looking for a more comfortable place to be, and I turned her back the way we needed to go, with some correction but not too much fuss. We jumped all our jumps on the first attempt. We trotted more of the course than I had planned but I gave her the ride she needed.

Then we had a whole snafoozle at the finish line--a long story, fault on both sides--and ended up with time faults and didn't get a ribbon, but of course Rosie didn't know that, she felt very happy, and I didn't care--what's a ribbon, really?--and I felt very happy, and also physically really good, in a way I haven't for a long, long time. And we'll spend the fall and winter, in between weddings and trips and lovely family things, schooling some more off-property and getting Rosie used to more things, just as we got her used to the two-stride. And we'll compete not because we're headed for the Olympics or even for low-level glory, but because accomplishing something that both takes effort and makes your heart sing is always worthwhile. It even beats bon-bons on a nice comfy couch. The journey is its own reward.

A Free Ice Cream Kind of Day

 Well. Yesterday the ALI Team (want to join us? we have work for you!) got to tour what used to be a medical laundry facility, but what will be soon, once we've signed a few papers, the NEW WORLD HEADQUARTERS OF APPALACHIAN LITERACY INITIATIVE. It's so amazing I can't even think about it in less than ALL CAPS. 

Bristol Faith in Action has been astonishingly generous, giving us space for the last 3 years, but last year we just barely squeezed into it, and BFIA didn't have more to give. I will be thankful to them forever, and it was time for us to go.

The Team had a list of hopes for a new space: bigger, preferably big enough we could stay there for a good long while; free (oh we desperately hoped for free!); was climate-controlled (books need this, to say nothing of our Board and volunteers); had a functioning toilet; had WIFI or could have it added. Then we had a list of wouldn't-it-be-wonderful but not required, like a room or two separated off from the rest, and being within pleasant driving distance for most of us. In our pipe dreams we wanted a loading dock where it would be simple to unload pallets of books from the trucks delivering them (40,000 books is a lot to load and unload), and if we could have everything we wanted we'd prefer the space be in Tennessee.

Bristol is a border city, smack dab on top of the Tennessee/Virginia state line, which in our downtown actually forms the main street. This creates all sorts of unusual situations--right now, for example, the Tennessee grocery stores are on a sales tax holiday while the Virginia stores that are part of the same chain are not. ALI is based in Tennessee, it's where our legal address (a PO Box) and our registration are, but BFIA, where we had books delivered, is in Virginia. In Tennessee, to get a sales tax exemption certificate, which we are required by law to give to all the people we buy books from so we can get them tax-free, you type your Federal Nonprofit ID number into a database, and you get a certificate good for five years. It may have cost $20 originally, I can't remember, but I know that when it ran out a few weeks ago another appeared like magic in my PO Box, good for another five years.

In Virginia, to get the same certificate, I first had to register for some sort of state tax number, and getting it took a few weeks. Then, using that number, I filled out an 8-page application, and paid an annual fee of $300, for a certificate that only lasted 12 months. It's just about to expire and now I won't need to renew it.

Anyway, the former medical laundry is just so staggeringly beautiful it's hard to imagine it can be ours. It's a bit of a mess right now, of course--it's being used to store furniture for Ballad Health, and it's kind of beat up, and it's so fantastic. It has a loading dock. I pulled up to it this morning with my truck full of CVS shelving pieces, and two very kind men unloaded 90% of it in the time it took me and two other Team members to do the other 10%. Yesterday we all stood in the space, looking around, no one talking, and then I saw the expression on my Partner-In-Crime's face, and then our Operating Manager started talking about where her desk should go, and darned if Ballad didn't offer to take some of the cubicle pieces being stored in the space and build her a perfect desk. 

And then they pointed to a bunch of empty bookshelves in one corner of the room, and told us they'd been gathering up unneeded bookshelves from all over the hospital system, and those were all for us. Honestly I've never cried over dusty bookshelves before. (Well, wait, I probably have.)

Ballad Health is behind ALI in a big way, for a simple reason: increasing literacy in children leads to adults with better health. It's stunning, but it's true, and Ballad knows it, and they're on our side.

Which, this morning, felt pretty amazing. Then I went to the post office and one of our grants renewed for next year, and someone sent us a lovely private donation--I'm busy securing all the funds I can right now, we had 66 schools apply so far this year. We accepted 53 schools last year, which was a ton, but I hate the thought of telling 13 schools no. So that was wonderful. Then I went to our local bakery downtown. We're having guests for supper and the bakery's desserts are better than mine. I went to pay for my selection, and the woman behind the counter said, "Would you like a free ice cream cone?"

I said, "Is it free ice cream cone day?"

She said it was. I picked strawberry. It was delicious. It's that kind of a day.

All in a Day's Hard Labor

 Most of the time, my work involves me staring blankly at a computer screen, my fingers making tiny specific movements. It doesn't look like much.

Other times, my work involves me lying on the couch with both dogs, staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to solve an issue in whatever book I'm working on. It looks like even less.

Usually the work I do for Appalachian Literacy Initiative isn't very invigorating, either--writing grants, researching books for our list, beseeching people to support our work. 

Today, though--today I worked like a stevedore, all for ALI. Early this morning our Operations Manager Hannah, who's technically not working this week, texted me and the rest of the board (all of whom besides me were out of town, don't worry, their time will come if it hasn't already, we all put in sweat equity) that the CVS on the parkway which just closed was selling off all furniture and fixings, first come first served, today. Next Monday we're touring a big empty space that we profoundly hope will be our new World Headquarters, and besides our bookshelves all of our furnishings at the current World Headquarters belong to our excellent landlords. 

So I went to the CVS and explained about my nonprofit to the guys clearing the place. I told them I had a truck. One looked out the door and said, "I thought you said you had a truck." 

I said, "That big blue thing in the corner." 

The man said, "Nah, that ain't a truck, that's a Ford."

Chevy guy. I said, "The only truck what is a truck is a Ford," and he laughed and cut his prices from nearly nothing to half of that.

 I bought 7 padded steel-frame chairs (from the pharmacy waiting area, they're nice), 2 desk chairs on wheels, a small round table, 2 trashcans, a bulletin board, a desk lamp, and 32 glorious feet of double-sided heavy-duty steel shelving, plus 2 endcaps, for the grand total of $245.30. (The 30 cents because they realized after the fact that they had to charge me state tax, so they back-engineered the original prices to come up with the closest after-tax total to $245 that was rational.) Then I went off to lunch with a smart woman who's kindly offered to help us set up our donor platform software, which we desperately need, and then my beautiful lovely grown-up and athletic daughter met me at the ex-CVS, her toolbox in her hand. We disassembled the shelving. Each 4-foot segment--eight of them--had--stops to count--between 17 and 23 separate pieces, many of them large, heavy, and unwieldy. Then we got every bit of it into my truck and my daughter's car, drove it to my house, stored the packed truck under the shedrow to shelter it in hopes that we can unload it next week at the New World Headquarters, transferred everything that was in my daughter's car to my garage, and collapsed from exhaustion. Just kidding. Actually we went and did the barn chores.  

Now I'm going to take a shower. It's a beautiful day.

Ten Percent

 Hello, hello! I've been away, finishing a book (The Night War, release date April 9, 2024), galivanting with friends, and then being sick for two weeks. That last I don't recommend, but there you are.

You all know about Appalachian Literacy Initiative , the nonprofit my friend Tracy and I started six years ago to give low-income Appalachian schoolchildren free books. We designed our program as a specific and researched response to the question, "Why are poor kids two-and-a-half times less likely to read at grade level than their wealthier peers?" Tracy and I really did spend a whole year looking up the answers to this and figuring out the most cost-effective way to help, and now, for the first time, I have proof that we nailed it.

All along, we intended to track test scores to see if our program was having an effect. Now, of course there are limitations--testing is flawed, and teachers are doing their best to teach all their students, and may have access to many other interventions beyond our free books. BUT in a giant meta-study of reading interventions, the only thing that consistently raised reading scores was giving kids books. I always hoped we could see some sort of effect.

However we hit a little glitch with the global pandemic. Not only was there no testing for two years, but comparing post-pandemic numbers to pre-pandemic numbers makes no sense at all. So we waited, and kept telling everyone we thought this was a great idea, to hand out books, (as an aside--there's new research that correlates increased reading proficiency with lowered teen pregnancy rates--so, yay books!) and happily lots and lots of people agreed with us, so that every year out of our first five our program doubled in size and last year we gave books to 455 teachers and 8353 kids. 

And finally we're getting some test scores where we can compare, before and after our program. We're in six different states which all test differently, and some schools have their results back and others don't. I spent yesterday making a spreadsheet of all the information I do have and I can tell you--

roughly, we increase reading proficiency by 10%.

Ten percent!

Does that sound small to you? Because I'm here to tell you, it's huge. Last year our program cost $28 per student enrolled. If we helped 10% of our students reach proficiency, that's 835 kids.

The greatest predictor of graduating from high school is whether kids read proficiently by the end of 4th grade (we enroll 3rd, 4th, and 5th grades). High school dropouts have an estimated net lifetime cost to the government (these numbers are five years old, I'll have to get new ones) of $292,000; high school graduates (again old numbers) have an estimated lifetime gain to the government of $180,000. Take 835 kids and get them on the track to high school graduation: a potential swing of $394,120,000. 

Three hundred ninety four million dollars.

Another way of saying it: each dollar we spent giving books to kids could produce $1685 future benefit to society.

One of the studies I read, back when Tracy and I were doing our research, showed that giving kids $50 worth of books of their choice at the beginning of the summer had a greater impact on their reading scores than $3000 worth of summer school. What I'm saying today is that $50 worth of books can be worth $84,250. The support you all give us really does and will change lives.

Hooray.

Our applications are open on our website--if you teach at a low-income Appalachian school, by all means, apply to be part of our program next school year. 

If you're feeling generous--there's a donate button there too. Every year we've doubled, and every year we've had to turn otherwise qualified schools away once we've committed all our funds. The money we bring in now will be spent on next year's students. 

The Swallows Returned!

 Monday was my red-letter day of spring. Monday the swallows returned.

There are two species of swallows that summer on our farm: pearly white-breasted birds that I've always called "Field Swallows" but have just learned via Google are actually "Tree Swallows," and their buff-breasted cousins the Barn Swallows. I am fond of the Tree Swallows. I love Barn Swallows.

These tiny birds fly thousands of miles to migrate each spring and fall. In October I saw them along the Amazon in Peru, to the eventual annoyance of one of our guides, Julio. We'd spend hours exploring tributaries by skiff, and whenever any of us (8 tourist per skiff) saw anything interesting, we'd point it out to Julio so he could identify it for us. 

So. Me: Julio, Julio, what's that? (said with wild excitement, because I'm pretty sure I know)

Julio: That's a swallow.

Me, two minutes later: Julio, over there?

Julio: That is also a swallow.

Me, one minute later: Julio, Julio!

Julio: Swallow.

Me, yet again: Julio! Julio, look!

Julio: Swallows, Kim!

Me: HAHAHA

Barn Swallows return to specific laying sites year after year, often reusing old nests, which they make themselves out of mud. Our barn became a barn swallow nesting site the first year it was raised. There are small flat metal plates on top of each light bulb fixture (because you have to have covered light bulbs in barns, for fear of fire) that were apparently perfect bases for barn swallow nests. We have nests on each of 12 light bulbs. We have a couple of nests built right next to the light bulbs, and a few  tucked into corners of the framing. In an average summer we'll have 8 active nests, each raising two clutches of 3-5 birds. That's four dozen more swallows every year. Swallows can eat a whopping 850 insects per day which keeps both flies and mosquitos to pretty low levels around our farm. Often when I'm riding in the summer, half a dozen swallows will fly circles around me, hunting the insects my horse kicks up from the grass.

Also, they're beautiful. They're graceful and endearing and the babies are fabulously grumpy. 

The tree swallows always return to our farm first, followed a week or so later by the barn swallows. When they're flying, it's hard to distinguish the two except that barn swallows have a deeply forked tail, a sideways V. I saw some tree swallows about 10 days ago, to my intense delight. Monday when my daughter and I went into the barn a pair of swallows was flying in circles around one of the old nest. They flew out the back door when they saw us, and we hurried after--"Forked tails!" my daughter exclaimed, and hugged me. I don't think she likes the swallows quite as much as I do, but it's admittedly a high bar.

I spent the next few days telling everyone how the swallows had returned, and now I'm telling you. Some sad day in mid-August they'll all leave at once, with no warning and far earlier than I think they should. But for now it's swallow time, my favorite season of the year.

Why We Needed Freewater

On Monday morning the Newbery award went to Freewater, a debut novel by Amina Luqman-Dawson. I'd bought the book last summer, but I didn't start reading it until this Monday afternoon, not for lack of interest, but because my To Be Read pile is threatening to overtake my entire house. I knew exactly where the book was in my stacks, and I snagged it and started reading over lunch.

This book, my friends, is exactly what a Newbery winner should be. It's also a primer in Why Everyone Needs Diverse Books. As it happens, the book may not have existed, at least not in its current form, without the work of We Need Diverse Books, a nonprofit organization founded in 2014 to address the fact that the books being published for children in this country did not reflect the diversity of the children living in this country. WNDB runs excellent mentorship and grant programs for aspiring children's writers and illustrators and for aspiring children's editors. I understand that both Amina Luqman-Dawson and her editor were part of those programs, which absolutely delights me. 

It's vitally important that all children see themselves in the pages of the books they read. When I spoke at Southern Festival of Books a few years back, my daughter and I also spent some time working in the Parnassus Bookstore tent, both out of the goodness of our hearts and because they gave us a hefty discount in exchange. My daughter saw a little Black girl walking past a line of picture books suddenly stop and say, "Mama, look! This girl has hair like mine!" She patted the cover illustration of book showing a little Black girl with tightly curled hair. Her Mama stopped and smiled and acknowledged the likeness. "What's the book called?" the little girl asked. "It's called 'Beautiful,'" her Mama said, and the child beamed.

But diverse books aren't just important for diverse (non-white, non-straight, non-cis, disabled, etc.) readers. Telling stories from different points of view builds empathy and understanding in all of us. That sounds very highbrow--here's what I mean. Freewater takes place within a community of formerly enslaved people (and some freeborn children) living hidden in the Great Dismal Swamp. I already knew the difference between describing someone as a slave and describing them as an enslaved person. 'Slave' seems to indicate something immutable; 'enslaved boy' tells you that the condition has been imposed on the boy by someone else. 'Enslaved person' centers the personhood.

In Freewater, Amina Luqman-Dawson uses the phrase "enslaved soul." 

Think about that for a moment. Think about the difference between an enslaved man and an enslaved soul. It's subtle, but it's very, very real. Enslaving someone's soul feels far more devastating. It's a much more powerful phrase. And it's not one that ever occurred to me, even though I wrote a book about enslaved souls that at the time garnered very positive reviews. My book didn't win awards; for the first time, I'm glad. 

I'm changed by reading Freewater. Hallelujah. You go read it, too.

The Day After All The Calls

 Today is the Oscars, the Tonys, and the Grammys of KidLit--American Library Association's Youth Media Awards. The Newbery and Caldecott winners were announced today, as well as the Printz, Siebert, Schneider Family, Stonewall, Coretta Scott King, and others--it's a great big festival of happiness. Nowadays there's a live online feed of the award announcements that draws several thousand kidlit watchers, including, of course, myself. While I technically did have a book published in 2022, there was absolutely no chance that She Persisted: Rosalind Franklin (of which I am quite proud) was going to win anything so I was in all senses a spectator this year.

It's lovely to have a book in contention but it's also strangely nerve-wracking. None of the major awards announce finalists ahead of time. However, winners do get "the call" before the official announcements--traditionally calls were made on Monday mornings very very early--that was what happened when I got an Honor in 2016--but now the switch seems to have been made to sometime the weekend before. That was true in 2021 when I got a call for Fighting Words, and according to a tweet from my friend Christina Sootornvat, it was true this year as well. 

Christina got the call while selling Girl Scout cookies.

I always have favorites going in but hesitate to say what they are, because I know I haven't read a full sampling of the books. I hadn't read any of the Printz awardees this year, nor any of the Caldecotts, though I had books I loved that didn't get any mention. I loved Christina's The Last Mapmaker but I read it so long ago, when she kindly sent me an ARC, that it was almost a surprise to me that it was still eligible.

There are always favorites left off the lists. Both last night and this morning I saw posts online reminding authors and illustrators that books do not need shiny award stickers to be valuable to children. I know this with all my heart. The current surprise runaway hit from the fifth-graders enrolled in ALI? Science Comics: Robots. Honestly probably about as likely to have gotten an award as my Rosalind Franklin book--but 39 kids from a single elementary school in southwest Virginia just requested copies, as did 47 kids from a single school in eastern Kentucky the week before. 

I have firsthand evidence that sometimes writers won't know the impact they've had on readers for years. Twenty-one years ago I published a novel set on the Appalachian Trail called Halfway to the Sky. It's still technically in print, though only electronically. It got good reviews, not great ones (a brief check just now on Amazon finds the phrase, "a fairly standard coming-of-age novel") and won absolutely nothing, though I did have several teachers tell me they enjoyed sharing it with their classes. About five years ago I got a letter from a young woman who wrote to tell me that my story had changed her life--because of it she started hiking. She found she loved the mountains and the woods. She listed some of the places she'd hiked and enclosed a photograph of herself on a summit.

Then I got another letter, from a young woman who'd started hiking because of Dani. She enclosed a photo of herself on the top of Kilimanjaro. 

Then a third letter. Then a fourth. Extraordinary.

I read something you wrote, and my life changed.

No one can say anything better to any author, anywhere.

This year's Newbery Award went to a middle-grades novel called Freewater. I bought it last summer when I happily found myself in Anderson's Bookstore (which resides in the same suburb of Chicago as the nearest TopGolf--my son lives in Chicago, and TopGolf is a good time. So is Anderson's.) I remember holding Freewater and another book (don't remember that one) in my hands, telling myself to pick one (why I was exercising such uncommon restraint I don't know) and going with Freewater on the grounds that it sucked to be a debut author as Amina Luqman-Dawson was, while we were still halfway under pandemic restrictions--I think the author of the forgotten book must have been more wildly known. Everyone is going to read Amina's book now. Everyone will know its name. This is fabulous, and it's even more fabulous that both Amina and her editor came out of We Need Diverse Books' mentorship program. Several years ago some leaders in children's literature saw that we needed to be listening to, upholding, and honoring many more voices, from all backgrounds, not just white peoples'. I'm so thrilled about this. I once wrote a book about enslaved children called Jefferson's Sons. It's out of print but I sometimes get letters from people asking if I know where they can still get a copy. I don't. I've been suggesting people read Crossing Ebeneezer Creek instead, and I do love that book--but hey, here's Freewater, try this one, too. I'm pretty sure you're going to love it.