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|Location||Call Number / Copy Notes||Barcode||Shelving Location||Status||Due Date|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658530||Kids Book Club||Checked out||11/11/2019|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658704||Kids Book Club||Available||-|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658712||Kids Book Club||Checked out||10/29/2019|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658720||Kids Book Club||Available||-|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658746||Kids Book Club||Checked out||10/11/2019|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658753||Kids Book Club||Checked out||11/22/2019|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658761||Kids Book Club||Available||-|
|Main||Kids Book Club 811.6 W868b (Text)||31307022658779||Kids Book Club||Available||-|
- ISBN: 9780147515827 : PAP
- ISBN: 0147515823 : PAP
- Physical Description: 349 pages : illustrations, portraits, genealogical tables ; 21 cm
- Publisher: New York, New York : Puffin Books, 2016.
If you would like to request available book club copies, please call 988-5400.
"Contains seven new, original poems by the author"--Back cover.
In vivid poems that reflect the joy of finding her voice through writing stories, an award-winning author shares what it was like to grow up in the 1960s and 1970s in both the North and the South.
National Book Award winner; Newbery Honor book; Coretta Scott King Award winner.
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Brown Girl Dreaming
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Brown Girl Dreaming
february 12, 1963 I am born on a Tuesday at the University Hospital Columbus, Ohio USA-- a country caught between Black and White. I am born not long from the time or far from the place where my great, great grandparents worked the deep rich land unfree dawn till dusk unpaid drank cool water from scooped out gourds looked up and followed the sky's mirrored constellation to freedom. I am born as the south explodes, too many people too many years enslaved then emancipated but not free, the people who look like me keep fighting and marching and getting killed so that today-- February 12, 1963 and every day from this moment on, brown children, like me, can grow up free. Can grow up learning and voting and walking and riding wherever we want. I am born in Ohio but the stories of South Carolina already run like rivers through my veins. second daughter's second day on earthÂ Â My birth certificate says: Female NegroÂ Mother: Mary Anne Irby, 22, NegroÂ Father: Jack Austin Woodson, 25, Negro Â In Birmingham, Alabama, Martin Luther King Jr.Â is planning a march on Washington, whereÂ John F. Kennedy is president.Â In Harlem, Malcolm X is standing on a soapboxÂ talking about a revolution.Â Â Outside the window of University Hospital,Â snow is slowly falling. So much alreadyÂ covers this vast Ohio ground.Â Â In Montgomery, only seven years have passedÂ since Rosa Parks refusedÂ to give upÂ her seat on a city bus.Â Â I am born brown-skinned, black-hairedÂ and wide-eyed.Â I am born Negro here and Colored thereÂ Â and somewhere else,Â the Freedom Singers have linked arms,Â their protests rising into song:Â Deep in my heart, I do believeÂ that we shall overcome someday.Â Â and somewhere else, James BaldwinÂ is writing about injustice, each novel,Â each essay, changing the world.Â Â I do not yet know who I'll beÂ what I'll sayÂ how I'll say it . . .Â Â Not even three years have passed since a brown girlÂ named Ruby BridgesÂ walked into an all-white school.Â Armed guards surrounded her while hundredsÂ of white people spat and called her names.Â Â She was six years old.Â Â I do not know if I'll be strong like Ruby.Â I do not know what the world will look likeÂ when I am finally able to walk, speak, write . . .Â Another Buckeye!Â the nurse says to my mother.Â Already, I am being named for this place.Â Ohio. The Buckeye State.Â My fingers curl into fists, automaticallyÂ This is the way,Â my mother said,Â of every baby's hand.Â I do not know if these hands will becomeÂ Malcolm's--raised and fistedÂ or Martin's--open and askingÂ or James's--curled around a pen.Â I do not know if these hands will beÂ Rosa'sÂ or Ruby'sÂ gently glovedÂ and fiercely foldedÂ calmly in a lap,Â on a desk,Â around a book,Â readyÂ to change the world . . . Â Â Â it'll be scary sometimesÂ Â My great-great-grandfather on my father's sideÂ was born free in Ohio,Â Â 1832.Â Â Built his home and farmed his land,Â then dug for coal when the farmingÂ wasn't enough. Fought hardÂ in the war. His name in stone nowÂ on the Civil War Memorial:Â Â William J. WoodsonÂ United States Colored Troops,Â Union, Company B 5th Regt.Â Â A long time dead but living stillÂ among the other soldiersÂ on that monument in Washington, D.C.Â Â His son was sent to NelsonvilleÂ lived with an auntÂ Â William WoodsonÂ the only brown boy in an all-white school.Â Â You'll face this in your life someday,Â my mother will tell usÂ over and over again.Â A moment when you walk into a room andÂ Â no one there is like you.Â Â It'll be scary sometimes. But think of William WoodsonÂ and you'll be all right. Â Â Â the beginningÂ Â I cannot write a word yet but at three,Â I now know the letterÂ JÂ love the way it curves into a hookÂ that I carefully top with a straight hatÂ the way my sister has taught me to do. LoveÂ the sound of the letter and the promiseÂ that one day this will be connected to a full name,Â Â my ownÂ Â that I will be able to writeÂ Â by myself.Â Â Without my sister's hand over mine,Â making it do what I cannot yet do.Â Â How amazing these words are that slowly come to me.Â How wonderfully on and on they go.Â Â Will the words end,Â I askÂ whenever I remember to.Â Â Nope,Â my sister says, all of five years old now,Â and promising meÂ Â infinity. Â Â Â hair nightÂ Â Saturday night smells of biscuits and burning hair.Â Supper done and my grandmother has transformedÂ the kitchen into a beauty shop. Laid across the tableÂ is the hot comb, Dixie Peach hair grease,Â horsehair brush, parting stickÂ and one girl at a time.Â Jackie first,Â my sister says,Â our freshly washed hair dampÂ and spiraling over toweled shouldersÂ and pale cotton nightgowns.Â She opens her book to the marked page,Â curls up in a chair pulled closeÂ to the wood-burning stove, bowl of peanuts in her lap.Â The wordsÂ in her books are so small, I have to squintÂ to see the letters.Â Hans Brinker or The Silver Skates.Â The House at Pooh Corner. Swiss Family Robinson.Â Thick booksÂ dog-eared from the handing down from neighborÂ to neighbor. My sister handles them gently,Â marks the pages with torn brown piecesÂ of paper bag, wipes her hands before goingÂ beyond the hardbound covers.Â Read to me,Â I say, my eyes and scalp already stingingÂ from the tug of the brush through my hair.Â And while my grandmother sets the hot combÂ on the flame, heats it just enough to pullÂ my tight curls straighter, my sister's voiceÂ wafts over the kitchen,Â past the smell of hair and oil and flame, settlesÂ like a hand on my shoulder and holds me there.Â I want silver skates like Hans's, a placeÂ on a desert island. I have never seen the oceanÂ but this, too, I can imagine--blue water pouringÂ over red dirt.Â As my sister reads, the pictures begin formingÂ as though someone has turned on a television,Â lowered the sound,Â pulled it up close.Â Grainy black-and-white pictures come slowly at meÂ Deep. Infinite. RememberedÂ Â On a bright December morning long ago . . .Â Â My sister's clear soft voice opens up the world to me.Â I lean inÂ so hungry for it.Â Â Hold still now,Â my grandmother warns.Â So I sit on my hands to keep my mindÂ off my hurting head, and my whole body still.Â But the rest of me is already leaving,Â the rest of me is already gone. Â Â Â the butterfly poemsÂ Â No one believes me when I tell themÂ I am writing a book about butterflies,Â even though they see me with theÂ ChildcraftÂ encyclopediaÂ heavy on my lap opened to the pages whereÂ the monarch, painted lady, giant swallowtail andÂ queen butterflies live. Even one called a buckeye.Â Â When I write the first wordsÂ Wings of a butterfly whisper . . .Â Â no one believes a whole book could ever comeÂ from something as simple asÂ butterflies thatÂ don't even,Â my brother says,Â live that long.Â Â But on paper, things can live forever.Â On paper, a butterflyÂ never dies. Excerpted from Brown Girl Dreaming by Jacqueline Woodson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.