This week, several people working for various US government agencies, including the EPA, the department of the interior, and the department of agriculture, have reacted to the Trump order barring external communication (http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/nationworld/ct-epa-contract-freeze-media-blackout-20170124-story.html) by creating alternative, or rogue, twitter accounts. Even those agencies who haven’t done so have found interesting ways to speak out. My favorite was Death Valley National Park, whose official Twitter site, @DeathValleyNPS, took time yesterday to tweet, not about the climate change science that is so annoying the Trump administration, but about the history of Death Valley and Japanese internees. “During WWII Death Valley hosted 65 endangered internees after the Manzanar Riot,” one tweet read. This came on the same day that Trump signed an order to (temporarily, he says) prevent refugees from entering the country and banning visas for people from certain Middle Eastern and African countries (http://www.reuters.com/article/us-usa-trump-immigration-exclusive-idUSKBN1582XQ). The timing of the Death Valley tweet did not, to some readers, seem coincidental; one asked if they’d ever tweeted about this “during the last 8 years”—i.e. during Obama’s presidency. As it turned out, they had; the park feels that history, as well as nature, matters. In this case, the history is complicated; the word “hosted” is interesting, because of course the Japanese-Americans moved to Death Valley were still in an internment camp, and they were moved because other Japanese-Americans at Manzanar thought they were collaborating with the government. But the @DeathValleyNPS tweets serve as a reminder that resistance to official, authoritarian, or institutional policy can come in many forms.
With that in mind, I thought I’d look at several different kinds of children’s literature from a variety of locations that promote resistance to such policy, both recent and historical. The oldest book I’ll mention here is also for the youngest audience: The Anti-Slavery Alphabet from 1847, published for the Philadelphia Anti-Slavery Fair that year (although the book is without pictures, sales were apparently “brisk” according to the society). I’ve written about alphabet books before; seemingly innocuous, they have frequently been used to further activist agendas suggesting that, as the epigraph on the Anti-Slavery Alphabet reads, it is necessary to “In the morning sow thy seed” (n.p.). This sentiment is made even more explicit in the rhyme that accompanies the alphabet’s letter “Y”: “Y is for Youth—the time for all/ Bravely to war with sin;/ And think not it can ever be/ Too early to begin” (n.p.). Youth, according to the book, can begin to war with the sins of adults as early as they begin to learn their letters.
And youth’s own creative powers are what will counter society’s wrongs. A picture book from the Ahmed Iqbal Ullah Trust may not be as openly didactic as the abolitionists, but Anansi Makes it Happen (2011) has equally activist goals. The AIU trust was set up in response to the racially-motivated murder of a 13-year-old boy by one of his classmates in Manchester in 1986, when (as now) migrants to the UK were being told to “go home” even when they were there legally and/or from birth. The education arm of the trust, run by Jacqui Ould, “aim[s] to celebrate the creativity of children and teachers in our multicultural city” (inside front cover blurb from Anansi Makes it Happen). Ould helps multiracial schools create versions of stories from a variety of the places from which migrants to the UK have come. The Anansi stories retold and illustrated by two primary schools honor the Caribbean and African migrants to Manchester. Knowing all this background makes the first story in the collection, “Why Spider Lives in Ceilings” that much more poignant. In the story, powerful, carnivorous Leopard not only steals Anansi’s home, he plans to eat the spider when he tries to return. Anansi is not defeated by Leopard’s size or power; he uses creative methods to stay alive and keep his home, just as the schoolchildren telling the story are using their creative powers to become authors and the AIU Trust supports projects to make the UK a more welcoming place for those who might be seen as weak or powerless.
Both The Anti-Slavery Alphabet and the efforts of the AIU Trust address people who are already present in a country, whether through forced enslavement or through voluntary or involuntary migration. Zana Fraillon’s The Bone Sparrow (2016), on the other hand, is a powerful reminder of what it is like for people who exist in the no-man’s land of refugee camps. The main character, Subhi, is Rohingya, an ethnic Muslim minority from Myanmar/Burma. But Subhi himself is not from Myanmar, or from Australia where he is living in a detention center guarded by armed soldiers. He was born in the camp, and knows no other life until the story begins. The camp is a miserable place, with not enough food, medicine, clothing or suitable housing, let alone education for the children. As Subhi’s sister comments, “‘Here, we are the dead rats they leave out to stop other rats from coming’” (109-110). But as Fraillon points out in her afterword, “desperate people continue to seek safety in countries lucky enough to boast peace” (230). She comments about the Australian government’s law making it “a criminal offense to disclose the mistreatment of refugees in detention” (231) before suggesting places where information on this mistreatment can be found. Fraillon’s fictional imagining of the camp in The Bone Sparrow encourages readers’ empathy, and hopefully will result in their activism.
Since I’ve written about alphabet books from America, folktale retellings from British children, and a middle-grade novel from Australia, I’ll end with another literary form for a different audience that comes from a different country. Jamaican poet Mikey Smith is anthologized in Facing the Sea: A New Anthology from the Caribbean Region for Secondary Schools (eds. Anne Walmsley and Nick Castor; Heinemann, 1986). His inclusion is important because he is a good poet, but also because he is a poet of resistance who was (allegedly, but only because no one has ever been charged) murdered after heckling government officials. Smith’s poem, “Me feel it, yuh see” tells what happens when young people are oppressed for too long by the institutions that surround them who “devalue dem dignity” (Facing 105). Smith’s poem concludes poignantly but powerfully: “anytime yuh see/ de yout-man-dem stumble/ doan tink dem fall./ Watch out!/ Dem a plan fi meck yuh bawl!” (106). With enough resistance, even walls fall down—and that’s a lesson that all kids should learn.