Charlesbridge Unplugged #8: Anne Sibley O'Brien

Today we're excited to have author Anne Sibley O'Brien join us to talk about her new book Someone New, which is a companion to 2015's I'm New Here. You can have a listen by clicking HERE:

Charlesbridge Unplugged - Charlesbridge Unplugged #8: Anne Sibley O'Brien

Seeing All of Us in Diverse Children's Books

This past March I sat around a table with a group of women, discussing my latest picture book, A Path of Stars, the story of the relationship between a young Cambodian American girl named Dara and her grandmother, a survivor of the "Killing Fields." The group happened to be inmates at the local women's prison, participants in a wonderful reading and writing program led by author Monica Wood (When We Were the Kennedys); I was the visiting author-illustrator. 

Going around the circle, each participant--mostly white women raised in Maine--shared a response to the book. No one said, "I really liked this opportunity to learn about another culture," though I'm sure they did absorb new information. Instead, what I heard again and again was, "I really loved this book because it reminded me of my relationship with my grandmother."

In the course of the conversation, we discovered another connection between the characters in my book and the women. Like Dara's grandmother, they were survivors.

A scene from A Path of Stars; Dara and her grandmother

So often, "multicultural" books are relegated to the purpose of examining differences, such as during Black History Month. What if books with diverse characters and cultures--like the ones in the previous post--were seen as being about, and necessary to, all of us?

Face research for Dara in A Path of Stars

In 1998, I traveled with a black South African friend to southern Africa, as preparation for illustrating a nonfiction book, Africa is Not a Country by Margy Burns Knight and Mark Melnicove. I wasn't planning to do any specific research so much as to look for some sense of connection, some insight that would inform my attempts to portray the diverse range of African cultures, none of which I belonged to and all of which I knew little about. I expected the countries I would be visiting--Swaziland and Zimbabwe as well as South Africa--would be the most culturally different of anything I'd ever seen, the equivalent of traveling to the moon.

That wasn't my experience. As I shopped open air markets in Capetown, walked the dusty paths of my friend's hometown neighborhood of Dube in Soweto, and bought food from street vendors in Durban, instead of a sense of curiosity at the exotic, my response was recognition. Despite the different colors of the landscape and the different customs of people's lives, I kept seeing things that seemed somehow familiar. It took me days to realize that I was reminded of the neighborhoods I'd grown up in in 1960s South Korea, of the ways in which daily life--from brushing teeth to bathing to baby care--was communal and took place in plain sight in the streets and alleyways. In the streets of southern Africa, I saw my own story. 

This was the insight that I brought back with me from my trip, the touchstone I held onto as I went through the lengthy process of research, consulting, collaboration, and critique, to create accurate and respectful images. It taught me that after all the essential work, there's another aspect to authentic representation that can't be found in the data. If we are to truly connect across all our differences, we have to let our hearts respond, and we have to trust those responses as true expressions of our common humanity.

I don't leap over differences to get to commonalities. As I'm researching and creating, I'm focused on the particular details of what defines human uniqueness, in groups and in individuals. The details of difference matter, and have meaning. I keep remembering how little I know, what blinders I'm wearing, that I often can't even imagine what questions to ask. I assume I will make many mistakes. I seek lots of input from primary source experts, people with lived experience, to help me see what I can't see.

But the North Star towards which I am navigating is the core belonging of each of us to one human community. In the images we communicate of "other people"--through the words and pictures we create as writers and illustrators, and the books we share with children as educators and parents--the sweet spot is lively, particular human being. To see, and reach for, our own selves reflected there. Anything less is not enough for our children. 

Ultimately, authentic diversity isn't about getting it "right." It's about getting each other. 


Posted by Anne Sibley O'Brien, author and illustrator of several books for young readers, including A Path of Stars. Anne blogged for Unabridged about the process of creating A Path of Stars here.

Meet Anne during Children's Book Week! 

In partnership with Primary Source and Charlesbridge, Anne Sibley O'Brien will be discussing race, ethnicity, and diversity in children's books. 

Her program, entitled "From the Heart: Illustrating Across Race and Culture," will take place on Tuesday, May 14th from 4:00 PM to 6:00 PM at the Watertown Public Library, 123 Main Street, Watertown, MA. 

A reception and book signing will follow at the Charlesbridge Original Illustration Gallery 

at 85 Main Street, Watertown, MA (two doors down). Free and open to the public! 

Kindly RSVP to trademarketing@charlesbridge.com. 

For more information about this event, please click here.

Book On Nonviolent Protest Becomes Family Affair

Listen to an interview with author Anne Sibley O'Brien on Maine Public Broadcasting.

Visit the After Gandhi website.

Learn more about After Gandhi, Anne Sibley O'Brien, and Perry Edmond O'Brien.

Pass the Peace!

There Were No Strangers

Attending the Inauguration of Barack Obama

It was all about the people.

Two million of us made our way from all across the country to D.C., all of us with one thing in common: the need to be there for the inauguration of Barack Hussein Obama.

My husband, O.B., and I drove the ten hours from Maine, campaign signs in the windows – “Obama ’08,” “Obama for ME,” and “One Nation” – attracting thumbs-up, beeping horns and other signs of enthusiasm.

We stopped overnight with friends in Philadelphia to attend a “Toast Obama” party. One guest told of his college-age daughter spending her own money to fly round-trip from Chicago just to vote when she discovered her request for an absentee ballot had been lost. Our host read a poem by an 8-year-old African-American student from Detroit with this exuberant ending: “Grab your potential/ Reach for the sky/ Barack Obama made history/ So can I!!!!!!!!!!”

We arrived in D.C. on the afternoon of January 19, just as the “We Are One” concert was beginning at the Lincoln Memorial. Eager to jump into the action, we parked our car and gear at the home of O.B.’s god-daughter in the Columbia Heights neighborhood and caught the Metro downtown.

Stevie Wonder sang from the Jumbotron as we wove among the enormous crowds on the Mall in the company of four young teachers-- Sherrine, Lynn, Nichelle and Jim--who we met on the subway. They helped us with directions and a recommendation of a soul food restaurant; we took photos together and exchanged emails. It was the first of many lovely encounters when strangers in the crowd became instant friends.

Just as we crested the hill under the Washington Monument, Obama came to the podium. The throng, filling the space all the way to the Memorial, went quiet. As our president-elect spoke of “seeing ourselves in each other” and proclaimed that “there is no obstacle that can stand in the way of millions of voices calling for change,” O.B. and I gazed around in awe, exclaiming over and over, “This is so amazing!”

For the next sixty hours, we spent most of our time in that blessed state. It was all so amazing. After walking among the streaming crowds for nearly two hours just to find a place we could get on the Metro, we devoured sweet potatoes, greens and smothered chicken at Oohs & Ahs on U Street. We stopped for a drink at a restaurant bar where we met Kelly, Sarah and Kendra, three young lawyers working in D.C. When they found out we didn’t have tickets to an inaugural ball, they invited us to their sold-out charity dance.

On Monday while O.B. was at a luncheon hosted by a Maine legal firm at the New Zealand Embassy, I attended the Martin Luther King celebration at the National Cathedral where the rousing singing of the multicolored young members of the Urban Nation Hip-Hop Choir had us on our feet, tears on our cheeks. That night at a Peruvian restaurant, El Chalan, with O.B.’s convention roommate and his friend, spontaneous conversations broke out among adjoining tables about the fabulous food and, most of all, the fabulous occasion. The inhibitions which normally would have kept us to ourselves had dissolved.

The encounters continued, on the Metro, in the waiting lines, in restaurants, on the streets. “It’s like Sesame Street for grownups,” O.B. remarked. A young Palestinian man wearing a kaffia, born in Damascus, now living in the U.S., told us that Obama’s election was the most hopeful sign he’d seen for peace in the Mideast. White and black Americans marveled together at what had come to pass and how we were all connected. There was a look exchanged as we noticed the newness of the connection, the joy we shared freeing us for the moment from the painful divisions of our history.

Rising at 5:45 on Inauguration Day, we waited in line for two hours in the freezing cold with Carla and Marlon from Florida and Diane and Bob from Washington. By the time we got through the Orange gate, we’d bonded so deeply that we just had to sit together for the ceremony.

It was all so amazing. Two million jubilant, open-hearted people. Sharing snacks and hand-warmers with each other and with those seated in the handicapped section. The moment when we first saw Obama’s image on the Jumbotron as he lined up for the ceremonial procession and we realized it was real, it was really going to happen! The roar of the crowd as he appeared – “O-Ba-Ma! O-Ba-Ma!” (Since when do the attendees at an inaugural ceremony chant the name of the president-elect?) The view behind us, the million or so people filling every space, as far as the eye could see.

We’re all back to our regular lives now, whether we viewed the inauguration in person, on television, or after-the-fact. We still have all those problems and challenges to deal with. But we also have the vision of what it can look like when we drop our defenses and across all our differences, reach out to each other. One nation.

It’s all about all of us.

_______________________________________________________

You can see a sketch Annie drew at the ceremony and a poem she wrote about the experience at her blog, “Coloring Between the Lines.”

Posted by Anne Sibley O'Brien, author/illustrator of After Gandhi: One Hundred Years of Nonviolent Resistance and The Legend of Hong Kil Dong.

Hong Kil Dong Goes to Camp

The email invitation came in June: Would I come to camp for a week in August? The inquiry was from the director of Camp Sejong, which brings Korean adopted and Korean American children to a campground in northwestern New Jersey, where they get Korean language, crafts, music, martial arts and cooking along with their swimming, games and summer fun. The director had found my Korean hero book, The Legend of Hong Kil Dong, and heard that I had grown up in Korea: would I bring my book and my background to share with the campers?

I accepted the invitation to be an author-illustrator-in-residence for the week, running workshops for campers ages 7-11. My task was to design daily book-related activities that would promote self esteem. I decided to have the kids make identity books -- collage scrapbooks of images and writing.

In good weather, which was most of the week, my classes gathered around tables in an outdoor roofed pavilion next to the swimming pool. Each child was given a square sketchbook as the base for their art and writing, and there were all kinds of art supplies. We brainstormed group lists about what was great and what was challenging about being Korean, being American, being bicultural and/or being adopted. Each day I introduced a visual idea for the children to use as a takeoff point for their own creations. One day we focused on Korean symbols, another day we drew mythical tigers and dragons based on folk art paintings, or made collages from piles of photographs of traditional and contemporary Korea. My goal was to expose them to as much Korean-ness as possible – in the form of images, symbols, ideas and stories – and allow them to select what appealed to them. (I knew that, living in this country, they were immersed in American-ness every day of their lives.) I wanted each camper to have the time and space to reflect on what it was like to be a person with dual identities.

Each day I also shared a Korean story. These included my book and drafts of folk tale retellings that I’d never pursued to publication. I was struck by the response. The kids went quiet, even the most hyperactive and rambunctious listening with rapt attention. In their slightly unfocused eyes, that hazy look when the mind is deep in an imaginary journey, I saw that the tales fed a hunger, and was reminded again of the power of stories for children.

The week culminated with a readers’ theatre presentation of my book that included live drumming, Tae Kwon Do demonstrations, and a part for every child. It was like watching the book come to life. Afterwards, copies were available for sale and signing.

Going to camp was invigorating, rewarding and fun. I certainly sold some books, but far beyond that, my book – and I - became part of the campers’ lives. I’ve already signed up for two Korean culture camps for next year.

Posted by Anne Sibley O'Brien, author of The Legend of Hong Kil Dong.